I get nervous when I learn that lots of people are due to descend upon my spacious residence for purposes of consumption and revelry. Although my roommate’s parties have been smashing mega-successes, they always seem to end sourly, little catastrophes piling up before the dawn’s light, when the police arrive and the guests flee. Upon these ugly endings, we usually have neighbors pounding on the walls, the landlord threatening eviction, an overdose victim dying on the kitchen floor, and me running around tearing my hair out, wondering how everything went to hell so fast.

This time, I hoped, I would face no angry paramedics or brandished flashlights. With a daytime barbeque, the loud racket would occur during daylight hours. With all the fire-seared food, the guests would be sluggish and drunk instead of coked up, delirious on ecstasy, and aggressively psychotic.

On Friday night, I formulated a plan to mold myself into a gracious host, one who would last all twelve hours of the party. I consider myself the level-headed, prudent, buck stops here type. I would rely on nobody else to thwart potential disasters.

My plan involved lots of cleaning on Friday night. There was sweeping, mopping, organizing, dishes, and more chorish slog necessitating thorough completion before any judgmental eyes would gaze upon our kingdom of filth. I ingested a heavy dosage of trucker speed and cleaned like a cokehead for three hours. My roommates all pitched in, heaving bags of garbage, breaking down cardboard boxes, scrubbing toilets, and arranging furniture. A true group effort, a bonding experience. I drank so much beer during the course of the mass cleansing that I woke groggy late on Saturday morning, my brain thick and dumb.

Exactly as I planned. As I brushed my pasty fuzzy tongue with mint baking soda toothpaste, I vowed not to drink any alcohol until sunset, my first sip concurrent with the approach of the waning hours of the party. I’m a binge drinker, and if I were to crack my first beverage early in the day, I’d end up blotto retardo by six, embarrassing myself before plenty of longtime friends and scores of strangers, leaving an awful impression. This time, I’m not losing my pants or dancing in potted plants. Composure required. My calculated binge on Friday night ensured my appetite for silly potions wouldn’t start barking for a long time.

Although I did begin drinking far earlier than six, I realized my buzz level was skyrocketing after a doubleshot of vodka around four. I switched to water, which I drank just as greedily as booze, and stuck with it until past seven. I never returned to full sobriety, but I didn’t become a blithering idiot, and that’s success in my book.

One of the DJs failed to arrive, and I was drafted to man the decks during primetime, just as the light faded and the guests’ drunk level led them them to clamor for whiskey. With four years, at least, between DJ sets, I was worse than rusty. I grabbed as many beers as I could wrap my arms around and carried them to the orchestra balcony, which doubles as a DJ booth. I scattered the chilled cans upon the floor and kicked them around as I started my haphazard audio assault.

I played wildly disparate genres of music, anything from Johnny Cash to European happy hardcore, from deep trance to banjo honkeytonk. My record collection is all over the map, and I gave my sloshed victims a world tour. I admit I enjoyed the hell out of it.

I can’t remember the end of the night. I did eventually become shitfaced, but not until the majority were departing. I woke on Sunday in my bed, the right place, and so far, nobody has said anything like “Do you know what you did last night?”

Quote of the night: “I love that we chop up animals and eat their body parts.”
4:13 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm